


to be

by lackingother



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: ...or is it?, Canon Era, Domestic, Gen, Leon really lets go, Oblivious Arthur Pendragon, Platonic Relationships, Short & Sweet, Soft Arthur, Soulmates, and Merlin being a dumb shit, arthur is lowkey a mother hen, drunk people, how does Arthur not know yet, kinda sorta fluff, one drunk wizard and one exasperated prince, undertones of magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 12:32:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17022693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lackingother/pseuds/lackingother
Summary: In a drunken stupor, Merlin tells Arthur they are destined to be.





	to be

 

“To the fool!” The prince bellows, boisterous as the hoots and yells that rise to join it.

“You or me?” Merlin calls over the noise, just when Arthur casts a winning glance towards the manservant. Someone--Gwaine--bursts out with a laugh, and others quickly follow. “I'll drink to that”--another chimes, loudly--presumably a very drunk Leon--and there are roars of agreement, clinks of tankards, and the endless exasperation of Arthur Pendragon.

“Alright, you've had enough,” mutters the blonde, more to the lump of flushed meat next to him than to anyone else, and stands from his seat.

“I can take him, sire.” Elyan, the diligent man he is, is one seat over and almost entirely sober. A mead sits, untouched, before his gloved fists.  

Arthur waves him off. “I've got this one. I need you”--he slights his head just in time to see Percival and Gwaine throwing themselves at each other in a sloppy attempt to wrestle--“to keep an eye on those.”

The knight gives a knowing smile, before he nods. “If you are sure.”

“Without a doubt.” Arthur looks at the beer again, frowns, and beckons the bartender over. He turns back, places a hand on the knight's ironclad shoulder. “Humor me and drink a little, Elyan. You've done well.”

The man seems to ease his posture at that, gladdened. “As you wish, Arthur.”

A light snore distracts the prince away, and Elyan lets him go with another subtle smile. Merlin is now slumped over the table, dark hair a mop against his flushed forehead.

“C'mon, you dolt,” Arthur murmurs, with no small tinge of affection to his voice as he tugs Merlin from his seat. The smaller man attempts to swat him away, hands flailing and failing, and Arthur rolls his eyes before easily pulling him up and away. And Merlin all but gives. The other groans.

“You’re at least ten sacks of potatoes, you hear?” Arthur mutters lowly, and his manservant makes an muffled noise that sounds of amusement.

“And you call me a lightweight,” he slurs, enjoying the physical leverage as Arthur drags him towards the tavern’s exit.

“You are, amongst many other things,” retorts Arthur, lugging his limp and extremely inebriated servant across the abandoned courtyard.

“What else am I?”, muses Merlin, staggering, slurring, but somehow still in song as the two trip into private quarters, "a sorcerer? A self-governed kingdom? The maker of beds? The last dra-"--and he really is about to go on, cut off only by his friend dumping him unceremoniously on an unmade bed.

“A _fool,_  before all else.” Arthur says with ease. His servant mutters something unintelligible--and rude, Arthur presumes--against his washed-out shirt as Arthur strips him down to undergarments. Dispensing the clothing on the floor, the prince peers down at the half-conscious man before him, admittedly entertained, before continuing, "and a really plastered one, at that.”

“Still your drunk fool,” quips Merlin in reply, a quiet fondness there just obvious enough for Arthur to catch it. He wants to say something quick and witty, he really does, but something in him relents and Arthur smiles a soft smile.

“Unfortunate, indeed.” The prince tucks the dark head just above the crest of the pillow, and folds those flimsy arms under the thick covers. The days are turning, and Arthur refuses to have a sick and bedridden manservant on his hands. He is making to leave when Merlin mumbles, nearly incoherent, “we were destined, you know.”

The words leave the man in a sigh--dreamy enough to cause disbelief, but sincere enough to put a pause in Arthur’s movements. He turns back, questioningly, to see Merlin staring back, storms and all.

“You are to be king, Arthur, and I am to be by your side.” There is a sort of clarity to the words and in the voice that speaks them, far from the slurring mess of before. It’s startling, like the rare times when Arthur realizes that perhaps, just perhaps, his manservant may not be a fool, not at all.   

Yet, the possibility of Merlin’s wisdom is nothing compared to the presence of his faith. His unwavering, endless belief in him, him, Arthur Pendragon, the one who lives in the shadow of his father.

“What are you saying?” The prince asks, softly, approaching the other once more.

“I’m saying that we were prophesied.” Merlin’s eyes are ringed with light from the fire, and they almost glow golden, for a moment. “Foretold, by druids and dragons alike.”

Arthur wants to ask how he knows this, and why-- _are dragons not extinct?--_ but then Merlin is smiling, and his eyes close, and Arthur tries to remember that he is drunk--a plastered fool. His plastered fool.

“We were meant to be,” murmurs Merlin, quiet, his voice trailing into an exhale of breath just as his head collapses back onto the pillow; still, and asleep. Arthur reaches his side by then, and the prince has the immediate urge to throttle the man awake and ask him how, why, what, amongst other treasonous things-

-and settles for silence, when he sees the peace in Merlin’s face, thinking only, _I know._

 


End file.
